


Collateral Damage

by Talithax



Category: Law & Order: UK
Genre: Angst, Casual Sex, Friendship, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, POV First Person, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-08
Updated: 2011-09-08
Packaged: 2017-10-23 13:10:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/250649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talithax/pseuds/Talithax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after the Season 3 episode, Anonymous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Collateral Damage

==============  
Collateral Damage  
By TalithaX  
==============

 

Placing my key in the lock, I open the door and step inside as a realisation as unwelcome as it is unsettling descends over me and leaves me feeling, on top of everything else, both shocked and slightly light headed.

Sick, even.

I don’t know how I got home.

That is, I know that I left Trafalgar Square on foot and that, eschewing the Tube for some reason or other that I can’t even recall now but which no doubt made perfect sense at the time, I just kept on walking. Logic, such as my mind is capable of at the moment, dictates that I must have passed Kings Cross, but…

I don’t remember it.

I remember being unable to reply to Ronnie and leaving him looking out across at Nelson’s Column and…

That is quite literally it.

I could have passed anything, any number of crimes or accidents and I wouldn’t even know it. CCTV could place me at the scene, could have me staring directly at it even and still I wouldn’t be able to be called as a reliable witness.

Which, let’s face it, is about par for the course.

Liar. Stupid. Incompetent. Arrogant. May as well add unreliable to the mix as well.

Shutting the door, I walk over the small pile of bills and begging letters from charities wanting my money to save species of animals I’ve never even heard of and make a beeline for the bedroom. It should alarm me more that I don’t remember anything about the last hour or so of my life but, what can I say other than it doesn’t. I’ll probably still be able to remember the rest of the day on my death bed, so what’s a missing hour here or there. Besides, as I have no plans to remember what’s to come, perhaps I should just put it down as practice.

Mind deliberately blank. Focussed solely on seeking out a means to an end. Obliteration in the anonymous arms of another as opposed to in the bottom of a bottle.

Use me. Kick me down to where I clearly belong. Silence the claustrophobic, suffocating thoughts threatening to swallow me whole.

I don’t want to think. Don’t want to remember. Don’t want to continue with the façade that right now is my life.

A low groan that sounds dangerously like a sob escaping my lips, I shake my head and brace myself against the chest of drawers. Hands closed tightly around the wooden top, I stare down at my feet and breathe deeply for a few seconds before once again turning a deaf ear to all the whispers of self-recrimination in my head and pushing on. Emptying my pockets, I remove the notes from my wallet and place them to one side before dumping everything else in the green depression glass bowl that my mother for reasons she’d never shared had treasured. Warrant card. License. They all go in the bowl. If I make a bad decision and, in keeping with my day, things go pear shaped I don’t want the poor uniformed bastard charged with calling in the details of my worthless corpse knowing that I was on the force.

Unclasping the silver chain around my neck, I clutch the St Michael medallion in the palm of my hand and know that, already, I’ve passed the point of no return. St Michael. The patron saint of police officers the world over. My mother’s final gift to me on my last day at Hendon and the one item I treasure above all others. I only take it off…

… When I don’t feel worthy of wearing it. When with calm, calculating deliberation I know I’m going to dance too close to the edge.

I could…

I could have a shower, call for a pizza that I’d only pick at before binning and stare vacantly at some mindless drivel on the television.

I could phone Ronnie, tell him that of course I forgive him, that it’s not, after all, his fault that he’s stuck with a loser as a partner and beg him to come over.

But I won’t.

From the moment, on dithery legs and feeling as though I could hardly keep my head up, I stepped down from the witness stand I’ve been on one path and one path only. And, along with all of my other character faults, I’m not strong enough to deviate from it now. Weakness clearly being another of my too numerous to mention faults, I just don’t have the willpower.

Besides, I want it. Need it. Crave it.

The medallion of St Michael suddenly feeling as though it’s burning a hole in my palm, I drop it into the bowl and, stripping off my clothes as I walk, make my way into the bathroom. The suit is my best one but I leave the pieces where they fall. It’s ruined for me now anyway. It may only be a black suit but it’s a black suit I’ll forever be able to relate to being stripped figuratively bare in the dock and I know I’ll never be able to wear it again, that at least some charity shop somewhere is going to benefit from my misfortune.

Naked, I step into the shower and, both time and the walls feeling as though they’re closing in on me, quickly wash myself. The warm water gliding over my body feels wonderful but I don’t allow myself the time to enjoy it and, within minutes and with my skin still damp, I’m back in the bedroom looking for something to wear. Settling on jeans, a dark green shirt I have no memory of buying and the black leather jacket that only ever gets an airing on nights like this, I dress, pull on socks and boots, grab the cash from the chest of drawers and walk out the front door.

Outside on the street, my one and only goal now in sight, I straighten my shoulders and just… walk. I don’t think about what’s to come anymore than I think about what’s past. Having been here before, my path is clear and, knowing no way to deviate from it, I feel a curious sense of inner calm settle over me. It may not be a nice position to be in, but it’s tried and tested and I know both what I’m doing and what I need to get me through.

It takes around twenty minutes to walk from my flat to The Anchor and, just like earlier, I somehow manage to make it to my destination without having paid any attention whatsoever to anything other than putting one foot after the other. This time however it doesn’t even surprise me. If anything I’m grateful for this apparent newfound ability to just… switch off. Without it I’d probably just be – an even bigger mess – sitting in the corner of a darkened room somewhere and banging my head against the wall.

Walking into The Anchor, I position myself just inside the doorway and carefully survey my surroundings. Unlike only a second ago I’m now hyper-aware and I take in both the pub’s décor and clientele as though I know in the future I’ll be needing to give a witness statement of the moment. The Anchor, despite falling under the umbrella title of being a ‘gay-friendly pub’ is non scene and I note with relief that very little, if indeed anything, has changed since I last had cause to visit. In fact, everything from the trying-too-hard-to-look-traditional wood panelling to the trying-too-hard-to-look-straight punters looks just as it did last time.

While saying I ‘like’ The Anchor would be taking things a step too far, I appreciate its place in the realm of ‘gay venues’ and it’s been my default fallback ever since moving to Islington. The music is more Franz Ferdinand and New Order than Kylie and disco classics, the clientele far more ‘average-Joe’ types than drag queens or primped and preened fashion victims and, by far most importantly of all, I’ve never seen its name mentioned in an incident report. It’s so non scene that not even drug dealers or homophobic thugs bother with it and the only raised voice I’ve ever heard inside was the barman asking a hard of hearing man what he wanted to drink. Somewhat boring. Definitely predictable. And as safe a bet as such a pub is ever likely to get.

Plus, non scene or not, it’s still a meat market. Some might come to simply drink and socialise but the majority come to pick up. You can see it, the desperate gleam, in their eyes as, instead of meeting your gaze, they look you over, their glance lingering with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer on your crotch.

I suspect I have that look in my eyes now.

My reasons for being here are no different to anyone else’s and nor do I pretend them to be.

Looking the men over, I slot them neatly into categories – too old, too creepy looking, looks too much like someone I know, couples looking for a threesome to inject some excitement into their tired sex lives – and settle on approaching the one practicing shots by himself at the pool table. Unlike the other thirty or so men milling around the bar he hasn’t so much as glanced in my direction and, clearly feeling even more masochistic by the second, for some reason I view this as a challenge. He mightn’t want me but, Goddamn it, I want him. Taller than me and with the sort of physique and, even in February, lightly tanned skin that gives him the impression of being a manual labourer of some description, to my mind right now he’s perfect. He’s even, and this is actually the least of my concerns, quite attractive with short, dark hair, a square jaw and, I note this with a clinical sense of detachment as I get closer, a smattering of laugh lines around open, friendly hazel eyes.

All this said he could look like Shrek for all I care. I want him for his size and complete lack of interest, not because I’m planning on keeping a framed picture of him next to my bed.

Sidestepping an earnest young man and suddenly falling prey to selective deafness as he stammers an offer of a drink, I stride up to the man at the pool table and, with a confidence born solely out of desperation, close my hand around his cue. “Buy me a drink and I’m yours,” I state, coolly meeting his look of annoyance at having his shot ruined and doing my best to smile if not flirtatiously then at the very least naturally.

His expression changing to one of bemusement, the man pulls his cue free of my grip and, with a casual shrug, shakes his head. “Look, mate,” he murmurs with a laconic smile, “I’m flattered, yeah, but I’m not interested.”

Although not unexpected, a wave of self-disgust washes over me at his response and for a dreadful, numbing moment I feel as though I’m in the dock again.

Arrogant. Useless. Can’t do anything right.

Swallowing hard, I shift closer to the man and place both my hands flat against his broad chest. “I know,” I reply, forcing myself to look up and meet his eyes. “That’s why the once in a lifetime offer is so cheap.”

“Oh. Is that so?” he queries as, taking a step back, he looks me up and down with obvious – calculating – interest. “You’re confident, I’ll give you that.”

“That’s not all I have going for me,” I retort, my heart beating a dull tattoo of increasing dread in my chest. How far do I push? At what point do I give up and slink off and ply my trade elsewhere? Can even this man, a stranger, see something wrong, something undesirable in me?

His smile broadening, the man gives a small nod and laughs. “I can see that, actually,” he replies with a shrug as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a tenner. “So, what’ll it be then?”

Hardly daring to believe that I – haven’t failed spectacularly – appear to be en route to getting my way, I shrug. “I’m not fussed,” I respond. “Whatever you think I’m worth. You choose.”

Single malt. House wine. Pepsi. Tap water. Just… Whatever. It would be an outright lie to say I cared. Truth be told I don’t even know why I based my – fuck me, I’m yours – offer around a drink anyway. A drink, after all, only wastes valuable fucking time. If I wasn’t such an idiot I would have realised that before I’d opened my mouth.

“Uh… Okay then.” Giving me an odd look, the man shakes his head and begins to walk towards the bar.

Alone and feeling as though all eyes in the bar are on me, watching me making a fool of myself, I deliberately keep my gaze glued on my – chosen means to an end – new acquaintance’s arse and nonchalantly lean back against the pool table. Minutes tick by in excruciating slowness as he waits to be served and this allows my treacherous mind to fly off on wings of self-doubt and paranoia. What if he decides I’m possibly unhinged and doesn’t come back? What if he leaves me standing here? What do I do then? Leave? Close my eyes and grab the first bloke that walks past? Give up and, to hell with the consequences, turn to drink?

I’m so caught up in the act of worrying myself into ever decreasing circles that it isn’t until I feel a cold glass being pressed into my hand that I even realise the man has returned. Embarrassed, but not wanting to show it, I take the pint of lager with a smile and toast him with it. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” he echoes, his own pint stilling halfway to his mouth as, wide eyed, he watches me down mine in four gulps. “I had been going to ask if you’d like a game or two but, and just call me clairvoyant, I think I know the answer already,” he comments wryly. “While I’ve got my gypsy scarf on though, don’t tell me, let me guess… Bad day, yeah?”

Fearing that I’ve overplayed my limited hand by gulping my drink, I glance down at my empty glass and shrug. “You have no idea,” I murmur, shifting a little away from the man as I fight the sudden urge to cut my losses and just bolt. The need is still there, if anything it’s even greater than ever, but I just don’t know how much further I can go with the act. “But… Uh… I’m sorry. I never should have…”

“You came here with one purpose in mind, didn’t you?” he interrupts, the pinpoint accuracy of his question softened by the knowing, even slightly gentle tone of his voice.

“Yes.” The word slips easily, too easily, off my tongue.

“Has that changed?”

“No. I…” I give another shrug and lift my head to look at him. To hell with it. Here goes nothing. “You’re right. I had a shit of a day and I just want to forget about it. If I thought I could have got away with it I’d have gone somewhere with dim lighting or a back room and would be on my knees by now. As it is though I’m here and…”

“And I’m wasting valuable time,” the man murmurs, cutting me off with an easy smile as, placing his still full pint on the nearest table, he holds his hand out and waits for me to take it. “While I’m not sure you’ll actually care, my name’s Steven.”

Although it’s on the tip of my tongue to issue forth with my usual half-lie of going by my middle name in moments like these, the mere thought of having yet another lie hanging over my head stops me and without pausing to question it, I reply, “Matthew. My name’s Matthew.” It’s a variation on the truth, seeing as it’s not the name I choose to go by, but at the same time nor is it a lie.

“Well, I’m pleased to meet you, Matthew,” Steven replies, still smiling his easy going smile. “Come on, then,” he continues, grabbing my hand and pulling me along behind him as he begins to move towards the door. “Let’s see what I can do about helping you forget.”

~*~

The sound of a car door slamming somewhere on the street below waking me, I open my eyes, note with neither surprise nor interest that I’m still in Steven’s bed and feel… nothing. Quite literally nothing at all. Yesterday’s gnawing need to both lose myself in sex and to give up as much control as I’m capable of has been sated and that, pretty much, is that. I got what I wanted, what I craved, and now the time has come to banish the memories to the overflowing lock box in the back of my head and move on. Stephanie’s murder, the role I inadvertently played in it, what happened in the dock, the self-hatred… Like my father, Nugent, the death of my mother and every other unpleasant thing that has ever happened to me, what’s done is done and I no longer want to think about it. Being so practiced in it, it’s not even a case of easier said than done either.

Pick myself up, brush myself off and, while all the time desperately trying to not look back, move forward.

As the poster du jour on Steven’s bedroom wall states, Keep Calm and Carry On. Tired of seeing the words on tourist t-shirts and filling the windows of tatty gift shops everywhere, I hadn’t thought about it before but now I almost feel as though I could adopt it as my own personal motto.

Pushing myself up on my elbows, I look over Steven’s still sleeping form and read from the clock radio on the bedside table that it’s just past five-thirty in the morning. My body complains a little at having to move but it’s an expected, somewhat even comforting soreness. Taking on my need to forget as a self-imposed task, Steven was very thorough in his… endeavours… and I can still feel the memory of his strong, clever hands on my body and the exhilarating, nothing-else-matters-but-the-moment sensation of his cock filling me. He’d given me exactly what I needed and, going on the proof of his own pleasure, there’d been no reason to feel as though I’d simply been using him. At least one thing having gone right, I couldn’t have asked for a better, and why beat around the proverbial bush here, fuck. He knew it, I knew it, and we both benefited from it.

I hadn’t planned to stay the night. In fact the thought couldn’t have been further from my mind and I’d been sitting on the edge of the bed looking around for my jeans when, casually and with no discernable ulterior motive, he made the offer.

“Stay?”

I opened my mouth to blandly refuse but the always eerie -- even to me and I have the occasional need to be the cause of them – sound of police sirens wailing their way down a nearby street stopped me. Somewhere something bad was happening or had already happened and… I just didn’t want to know about it. I didn’t want to accidentally stray across the scene and either see for myself what had taken place or feel compelled to assist, and nor did I want to run the risk of strolling past an officer who might have recognised me.

So, unable to put the truth into words I just nodded and lay back down on the bed.

I didn’t think I’d sleep and a part of me thought I’d just wait until Steven was asleep and the police had had time to leave the scene before sneaking off, but sleep I did. The noise in my head having finally been silenced and the day already well on the road to being relegated to unfortunate history, I think I was asleep within minutes.

All good things must come to an end though and I know that I have to get moving. I have no idea what I’m going to do with myself for the rest of the day, a rare Saturday off, but I know that I can’t stay here. Steven, I’m sure of it, is a great bloke and under different circumstances I suspect we’d be capable of being good friends. As harsh as it sounds though I’m not looking for another friend and I doubt, given the circumstances of our meeting, that we’d ever be able to see past the events of last night. It’s just for the best, for both of us.

Gingerly swinging my legs over the edge of the mattress, I sit up and, running my fingers through my hair, scan the floor for my jeans and boots. My shirt and jacket, the first casualties of the overwhelming flood of desire that descended over both of us the second Steven had kicked his front door shut, I know are still downstairs somewhere by sofa. Spotting what I’m looking for, I slowly stand up and, wanting to get dressed on the landing in the hope of not waking Steven, walk silently across the floor to retrieve them.

As quiet as I think I’m being though it’s obviously not quiet enough as I hear the sound of movement coming from the bed only seconds before a lamp is turned on and the bedroom is bathed in a soft amber glow.

Damn. Sprung.

“Matthew…”

“I…” My plan to sneak out unnoticed having failed, I pull on my jeans and reluctantly turn to face him. “I’ve got to go.”

“Trust me, I know better than to try and stop you,” Steven replies through a yawn as he leans back against his pillow and gives me a sleepy smile. “I just wanted to say something to you before you disappear and I never see you again.”

“And what would that be?” I’m quite sure I don’t want to hear it but, as my mother always taught me that manners are a thing to take pride in, I shrug and look at him expectantly.

“That I got a bargain last night,” he murmurs, his gaze settling on my bare chest. “A definite bargain.”

Maybe it’s too early in the morning or perhaps it’s just because I haven’t eaten anything for twenty-four hours, but I don’t understand what he’s getting at and frown. “Sorry?”

“You’re worth more than a pint.”

I snort and give a dismissive shake of my head. “You mean this is,” I mutter, gesturing down at my body. “Don’t kid yourself that…”

“No. I mean the whole package,” Steven interrupts matter-of-factly before yawning again and, clearly having said everything he’d wanted to, settling himself back down on the mattress. “Goodbye, Matthew. I’m sure I’m only wasting my breath, but if you ever need help forgetting again then you know where to find me.”

There being nothing else I can think of saying, I mutter, “Goodbye, Steven,” under my breath and walk out of the bedroom. The rest of my clothing being where I knew it’d be, I finish getting dressed in the living room before walking out the front door. Steven’s flat only having been a fifteen minute stroll from The Anchor I know that I have to still be in Islington somewhere and, reaching the end of his street I’m relieved to recognise the road and quickly plot a course for home. Dawn still being half an hour or so away, the streets are dark and the traffic light as, with my hands in my pockets, I walk along. Like last night I very deliberately don’t think about anything in particular but the one thing I do actually do differently is take in my surroundings. I see the litter blowing along the street and the droplets of still sticky blood staining the pavement outside the pubs. I see the young couple, their night still not over despite the fact she’s carrying her high heels in her hand and he’s got fresh looking vomit stains down the front of his top, walking down the middle of the road and the old woman still in her faded pink dressing gown walking her equally as old looking poodle as it sniffs the tyres of the parked cars and tries to decide which one would be best for pissing on. It’s only a small thing, this looking around and actually seeing the world I’m a part of, but it makes me feel…

Alive.

That things are nowhere near as bleak as I thought they were yesterday.

I may not know how I’ll react when I next see James Steele or what I’ll feel when Alesha’s apologetic, pity tinged gaze falls on me for the first time since avoiding her eyes from in the dock, but I’ll cross those bridges when I come to them. As for Ronnie, well I think I might just bite that particular bullet and call him later this morning. I have no idea what I’ll say but knowing Ronnie he’s sure to make it easy for me. He always does and it’s something I’ve come to rely on him for. Sure, it can be argued that what happened is his fault, that if he’d – we’d – handled things better the result may have been entirely different. But… Blame won’t bring Stephanie Blake back anymore than it would erase what happened in the courtroom. I may not have said it last night and I don’t ever want Ronnie to go off on his own tangent without me again, but there’s denying that the result was… worth it. The right man went down for the crime and, with one less toerag on the streets to worry about, life goes on. It has to.

The sun is just beginning to rise over London as I turn into my street and it’s with the help of this soft light that I spot him immediately.

Ronnie.

Sitting on the park bench opposite my flat in his familiar beige coat and reading a paper.

It’s, I don’t know, not even six-thirty on a Saturday morning and there he is, waiting for me. I wouldn’t entertain his unspoken apologies or freely-given friendship last night and walked off on him without a word, yet…

It doesn’t matter.

He’s here for me like he always is and the sense of gratitude this installs in me is just incredible.

Walking up to the bench, I tap my finger on the take-away coffee cup in his hand and sink down on the seat next to him. “Where’s mine?”

“This is yours,” Ronnie retorts, lowering the paper and glancing down at an empty cup by his feet. “I finished mine ages ago and yours was just getting cold, so I decided not to waste it.”

“Charming.”

“It’s getting pretty nasty,” Ronnie replies, looking at me over the top of his glasses as he offers me the cup, “but there’s probably enough left for a mouthful if you really want it.”

“You’re all heart.” Laughing, I bat the cup away and, stretching my legs out, make myself comfortable on the bench. “Where’d you get cups of coffee from at this time of morning anyway?”

“You forget that I was pounding these streets before you were even a twinkle in your mum’s eye.”

“You mean they had streets back then? Given the way you sometimes carry on I thought you joined the force back in the day of cobblestones and horses and carts.”

“Now who’s being charming, huh?”

“You can dish it out, but you can’t take it.”

“Speaking of dishing it out…” His expression turning serious, Ronnie looks me over with such intensity that I can quite literally feel myself wanting to squirm. “Rough night?” he queries mildly as he folds the paper flat and places it on his lap.

I shrug and, laying them flat on my thighs, stare down at my hands. “Depends on your definition of rough.”

Ronnie sighs and surprises me by lightly patting my knee. “I just hope she was worth it.”

“He,” I correct, the need to be entirely honest suddenly striking me as – to hell with the consequences – an important if not imperative one. It may not be the wisest idea I’ve ever had and I’m sure I could have gone about it in a better way but… Whatever. It’s out there now and Ronnie can make whatever he wants of it. “It… He… I was with a he…”

“Oh.” Ronnie, it just has to be said, looks unmoved by my out of the blue confession. If anything, if I’d allowed myself time to even think about it, his reaction is just about what I would have expected from him. Unflappable, just about as open minded as they come and slow to judge. “You didn’t have to…”

“No lies,” I interrupt, glancing at Ronnie and slowly shaking my head. “I’m not a liar.”

“I never said you were,” Ronnie responds, giving my knee another small pat as, with a grimace of distaste, he finishes the coffee.

“No.” I exhale deeply and stare up at the sky. “But he did.”

“James? Come on, Matty, you know he was just doing his job and that it wasn’t personal.”

“Not just James,” I whisper, lowering my head and, because the worried look on Ronnie’s face unnerves me, dredging up a wan smile that I just know doesn’t meet my eyes. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m okay, seriously. He was just the latest in a long line of men to call me a liar, that’s all. My father, Nugent…” Trailing off, I release a shaky breath and shrug. “Sorry. I suppose you could say that being called a liar cuts deep and… and I don’t want you to think that of me.”

“You’re not a liar, Matty, and I never thought that of you for a second,” Ronnie replies, mirroring both my shrug and wan smile. “You’re a good person, a damn fine copper and someone I’m proud to call a mate. Well, that’s if we’re still friends, yeah? I know I’m to blame for…”

“Of course we’re still friends,” I state, surprising I think both of us with the vehemence in my voice. “Friends and, if you’ll still have me, partners.”

“If I’ll still have you?” Ronnie queries, his expression clearly indicating that he thinks I’m mad for even asking such a stupid question.

“Yeah, well, while you might think I’m a better copper than James does I… did… just effectively come out of the closet.”

“Oh. That.”

“Yeah. That…”

“Like that matters. If you must know I had you pegged as one of those… metrosexuals… anyway, so, you know, changing the prefix to bi or whatever isn’t exactly going to be much of a stretch.”

“Metrosexual, huh?” I laugh as, an invisible weight having been lifted from my shoulders, for the first time in what feels like too long the smile that stretches across my lips is a genuine one. “Don’t tell me you’ve been browsing Wikipedia looking for new words again.”

Ronnie’s eyebrows rise above the rim of his glasses. “Wiki-what, now?”

“Never mind.” Grinning, I stand up and stretch. “What are you doing out here anyway. It’s a Saturday morning. You should be tucked up in bed dreaming of chip butties or whatever it is you dream about.”

“You weren’t answering your phone and, what with everything that went down yesterday, I was worried about you,” Ronnie responds, given me one of his rarely scene warning looks that, without the need for words, tells me that now is not the time to dismiss his obvious concern with more banter. “I wanted to know if you were okay and whether… we… were okay…” Placing the paper and empty cup on the bench, he stands up and looks me in the eye. “So… Here I am and the questions still stand. Are we…”

“We’re okay,” I confirm, cutting him off. “I’ll admit that I wasn’t particularly that way last night but… I am now and… if you’re okay then… uh… we’re definitely okay.”

Beaming, Ronnie nods and claps me on the shoulder. “Good. That’s exactly what I wanted to hear. I’m okay, you’re okay, we’re all okay. So, as there’s far more important things needing our attention, let’s move on.”

“Important things such as…,” I prompt, only more than willing to go with the flow and simply put everything else aside.

“Important things such as breakfast, of course,” Ronnie replies as he bends down and retrieves a plastic carry bag from beneath the bench. “Look. I come prepared and everything.”

“And, going on the fact the coffee had gone cold if you think I’m eating anything that’s been sitting there congealing at your feet then you’ve got another thing coming,” I retort, pulling a face as I dig my keys out from in my pocket and glance across the street to my flat. “I know you’ve got a cast iron constitution and can eat anything, but not me.”

“Oh ye of little faith.” Chuckling, Ronnie holds the bag open and, with a tilt of his head, invites me to inspect its contents. “See? It’s not congealing at all and is as fresh… Well, it’s a fresh as you’re ever likely to get from one of those twenty-four hour joints. But, hey… If you don’t want me to cook you bacon and eggs then all you have to do is say.”

“Hmm…” I peer at the loaf of bread, half a dozen eggs and shrink wrapped packet of bacon in the bag and wrinkle my nose. “Can I reserve my answer until you’ve dished it up?”

“No you bloody well may not!” Giving my arm a none-too-gentle thump, Ronnie crosses the road and waits for me to join him at the steps leading up to the front door. “You either say you’re going to eat it or I’m not going to waste my time slaving over a hot stove for you,” he adds as, dangling the keys from my finger, I step past him. “Honestly. The youth of today. You’re just incredible.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, unlocking the door and gesturing him inside with a grand bow. “I take it you’re still planning on availing yourself to… this youth’s… kitchen though, yeah?”

“As I’m starving and doubt I’d be able to make it very far without sustenance, you’ve got it in one, sunshine.”

“In that case, seeing as you’ll be doing the slaving anyway, you may as well dish up two plates as one.”

“Yeah, well, you’d better eat it if I do,” Ronnie counters as he makes his way into the kitchen and, knowing his way around it just about as well as I do, grabs the frying pan from the cupboard by the stove. “I was thinking of going classic for lunch, either fish and chips or Chinese,” he continues, to my mind at least apropos of nothing, as I lean against the doorframe and watch him going about his business as though he’s in his own kitchen. “What gets your vote?”

“Staying for lunch then I take it?” I query with a laugh. If Ronnie’s made up his mind to baby-sit me all day then who am I to complain? It’s not as though I had any plans of my own anyway and, besides, I could do with the company. Comfortable, reliable, enjoyable company that I know I’d do well not to take for granted.

“A man’s got to eat.”

“That he does. Come on though, spill. You’ve got your day planned out, haven’t you?”

“Well, the Hammers are playing this afternoon and you do have that big new telly you got in the sales that I haven’t had time to check out yet…”

“And, don’t tell me let me guess, you’re thinking the game would look good on it?”

“That’s the hope.”

“Early game?” I ask as I walk into the kitchen and begin to set the table.

Ronnie nods and slots two pieces of bread into the toaster. “Uh-huh. So as long as we’ve got lunch in by midday we should be set.”

Grabbing the butter from the fridge, I place it on the bench by the toaster and smile. “Sounds good to me.”

Positively perfect even.

~ end ~


End file.
